


Little Thing

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cannibalism, Child Murder, Corpse Desecration, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Addiction, Extremely Underage, Graphic Description of Corpses, Human Trafficking, Infanticide, Mutilation, Necrophilia, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22941730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A cathartic writing exercise in a story costume. You get what you click on.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24
Collections: Anonymous





	Little Thing

$300 and a balloon, and it was hers, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like dead mice and cigarettes. It was pink and small, smaller than it should've been. She couldn't complain. It fit nicely in the box in her trunk.

She inventoried it once she got home. It had the requisite parts and no obvious deformity. Its lower legs were dotted with w-shaped wounds… rat bites. The blood was dry. It fussed when she touched them.

She washed it in the sink. It left a ring of filth. She dried it carefully and wrapped it in a blanket. It was cheap, but it was new. 

It was all new… different… better. No matter what happened next, she'd taken it out of that place and bathed it and made it comfortable. She laid with it on the bed, watching it breathe. It was probably the closest to peace that it had ever been.

The quiet didn't last long. Hunger hurts. Withdrawal hurts. Life hurts. It vibrated and turned red. She held it close, muffled the noise with her chest. She felt it echoing in her ribs, begging, ready.

Carefully, she propped herself up on the pillows and bent her knee to help support it. It choked on its cry, a terrible stuttering sound that made the room sharper. Holding it, feeling it put everything it had into the screams, made her feel awake. Alive.

She touched its face, wet and hot, and pulled it in tightly. It smashed into her breast and tried to undulate. She held it. It thrashed and pushed against her. When it bit down, she couldn't take it anymore.

Her free hand bundled her skirt up and clawed her inner thigh. Waves of tingling pain washed over her. The room throbbed in Technicolor. Her hand found her clit, slick and swollen. She rubbed against the heel of her palm.

It writhed and she held it closer. The fabric of her blouse was soaked with tears and drool. She watched it fight. It was so small. It was hers. She held it up with one arm and bucked her hips. Halting moans broke free.

Eventually, its movements became erratic and infrequent. It felt heavier. Her belly sprouted fireworks and bloomed. Their bodies jerked together in involuntary release. She was loud. It was silent.

She lay a while after, leaning against the headboard, licking the glaze from the palm of her hand. She could swear it tasted sweeter. Anytime she held a little thing, felt it go limp, something special came out in her and she could taste it.

It was still warm, but it wouldn't stay that way. She didn't want to put it down. It felt good. But she knew better than to indulge. The longer she waited, the harder it would be.

She left it on the bed, wrapped in the blanket, and washed up. Her thighs were wet. It wouldn't do. She changed her clothes. She pulled her hair back. She took off her jewelry. It was a divider, a signal of the change from organic pleasure to methodical satisfaction.

Its eyes were still open, just a little bit. She pressed the lids down gently. Their time would come. She washed it again, despite the fact that it wasn't dirty. Heroin causes constipation. But the ritual was set before she started sourcing them that way, and it just felt right.

She laid it on the plastic picnic tablecloth she kept for special occasions, and opened it. The blade ran from top to bottom, from side to side. She worried, even after so much practice, about cutting too deep.

She worked the petals free with bare fingers. It didn't bleed. Not really. It seeped, like a piece of fruit. The farther she peeled the skin, the stronger it smelled. It was raw pork and tripe and wet pennies, not roadkill. She sighed in relief. She hadn't cut anything she didn't want to.

In a thing so small, everything is soft. Once she could get the shears under the ribs, they snapped like green wood. She lifted the bone away like the lid of a cookie jar. 

In a larger thing, the organs would be held together with silverside, like a roast, but these were looser, harder to take out. She was careful. Experience mattered. She didn't give herself enough credit. Everything was slimy and smooth. 

The heart was thin. It hadn't yet developed the tightness of a well-used muscle. She cut it free. A rush of blood came out. The lukewarm stickiness was nice, but it obscured her view enough to warrant paper towels.

As the bags and tubes came out, she put them in a plastic container. It went into the freezer. The heart, wrapped in paper towels to catch what leaked, waited in a Ziploc bag.

Carefully, she opened the eyelids. The eyeballs were still fresh, blue irises that probably would've changed as it grew. Removing them intact was tricky. A spoon slid beside them and made room for curved fingernail scissors. Once the strand at the back was clipped, she could lift them out and place them in the bag. It went into the refrigerator.

The little spine was beautiful. She rubbed the ridges for a minute or two. It was easy to give in to the sensation. But it was cooling faster now that it was empty and she didn't have time to daydream.

It fit in the sink with room to spare. Heroin causes low birth weight, another perk of buying them from addicts. She made deep cuts in the inner thighs and armpits, right where the limbs join. It couldn't bleed, so she filled the sink with warm water and massaged it to work the blood out.

When the water was a pretty pink, she drained it and ran more. This part was worth taking her time. The blood rots first, or so it seems. Without a good wash it would stink too soon.

When she was satisfied, she drained it, salted the cavity, and propped it in the dish drainer, face-down. That wasn't necessary. It wasn't a turkey. But the ritual was set before she knew any better, and it just felt right.

While she waited, she made the gelatin. Two ounces in eight ounces of water always seemed like far too much. She second-guessed herself every time. But it was perfect. She poured a little into the bottom of the egg molds and chilled it just enough to start to firm. That way, the heart and eyes would be centered. She positioned them carefully, snapped the mold together, and filled it. They would be ready when she was.

For what it was worth, the salt did pull some moisture out. It just wasn't enough to matter. She dried the inside with paper towels, then lined the sink with more. Towels were cheaper than plumbers and she'd learned that the hard way.

The leather awl she'd bought online popped through the fontanelle like a raw pig's ear. She used it to stir what was inside. It felt like almost nothing. After a minute, the tip of a good kitchen knife replaced the awl and started to separate the plates of its skull. It was oddly satisfying to feel them moving beneath the skin.

Once she was able to widen the opening enough, she switched to bare hands. It took a bit of prying, more than she'd expected the first time, but they would eventually peel back. It reminded her of an Easter basket.

She poured the slop out. It would be easy to get lost in it, reading it like tea leaves, looking for the memories of mama, of septic womb and tainted breast milk, of quiet, of emptiness and the smell of her cum. She scraped the sides with a spoon and dried it. The pale pink fat went into another freezer container, towels and all.

Her art supplies were kept in a large cosmetic case. It was pink. The collection of tools and glittering baubles made her smile. It wasn't an unusual hobby, making small things pretty.

Its eyelids drooped inward in a way she didn't particularly care for, but that was easily remedied. An Asian company had sold her a huge box of life-size doll eyes. She'd spent many nights after work decorating them so that she only had to choose a set.

The irises had been repainted purple and the pupils covered with pink sequins. They fit into the sockets with only a little adjustment. Some pink mascara on its tiny lashes improved it even more.

Her awl made holes for jeweled brads in its ears, cheaper than earrings and just as pretty. More brads went through its tongue, tiny pink gems in two rows. She used a fine-tipped pen on its finger- and toenails, a wider marker on its lips. A wide ribbon held its torso closed, a big, showy bow hiding much of the incisions.

The bowl of its head was still standing open. She filled it with a puff of white tulle, soft and light. Carefully she chose an assortment of embellishments to glue to its new mind. Tiny ribbon roses, pearls, paper butterflies… the glue gun burned her fingers but she didn't mind. When it was full, she pressed the petals of bone back into place.

Together, they laid on the bed. It was pretty, far prettier than it would ever have been on its own. She stared, trying to burn its image into her mind. She ran her hands over its arms. They were soft. She kissed it, feeling its cheeks and palms with each press. She dipped her thumb, then her tongue, into its mouth to appreciate the contrast of faceted gems and smooth flesh. Her fingers found its other openings and dug into them, trying to know every inch.

She took her time loving it until she felt the time run out. If she hadn't cleaned it so well, it would've reeked by then, warmed by decay instead of her touch, back going purple. And the flies that somehow always knew and almost materialized from nothing. But even a well-prepared thing would go sour. She couldn't put off the inevitable much longer.

Before she wrapped it, she laid it on a cutting board in the kitchen. She kept the boning knife sharp. It trimmed the thighs, all baby-fat and veal. She wrapped the meat in plastic for later. But she couldn't resist taking one thin slice to chew. It was something like tuna, something like sex.

When it was wrapped in the blanket and back in the box, she went back into the bedroom to prepare. Exploring the tiny thing and tasting it had left her wet again. There was no use washing up yet. She spread a towel on the bed and pulled her skirt up around her stomach.

Inserting the gelatin eggs into the ovipositor was always a challenge. The necessary lubricant made it all the worse. But she finally succeeded and slicked the silicone shaft of the toy. It slid in so nicely, thick and bulging.

She squeezed the base and pushed the first egg into her body. It was unlike anything, rolling and pressing. She moaned and squeezed again and again. The eggs swam inside of her. She carefully pressed her thick, shallow plug in behind them. They protested, tried to slip out. A pair of snug panties, with a thick maxi pad to catch drips, held the plug in place.

It was a long drive. A backpack sat in the passenger seat. It held the little thing, wrapped in its blanket, and the boxes of viscera, gone slushy in the freezer. She loved that the thing was near her, in her, in pieces. She ground her pelvis into the seat to the beat on the radio, enjoying the slosh and the pressure.

She drove to the overlook she remembered from childhood. The view always took her breath away. She spared a few minutes to breathe it in, memories of herself in one darling, innocent piece. Before… before.

The hike was hard. The pack wasn't heavy, but the terrain made it feel that way. She twisted between trees, picked over large stones. Wild blackberry canes caught her skirt and bit her thighs. Mud squelched up around her sneakers, just shy of the laces.

There was no trail. She knew the way from repetition alone. The spot wasn't even a clearing. Not really. A few trees had fallen at some point and crushed what was trying to grow. The ground between them showed signs of previous trips - tiny ribbon bows and sequins, eyes trampled into the dirt, strings of tulle caught in the bark of the trees. 

There was the tin plate she covered in dog food on the off weeks, ensuring that the animals would return when she needed them to. She opened the boxes and dumped the contents onto the plate. On top of them, she arranged the pretty thing.

Carefully, she squatted down and ran her hand down into her panties. She was already close from the constant stimulation of the eggs. But one climax would not be enough to finish the process. The ritual was set before she bought the ovipositor, and it was the only way to completely satisfy the need.

She closed her eyes and kept rubbing. She thought back to the first few times, stuffing bits of meat inside of her, keeping them in too long, how deliciously slimy they had been when she birthed them. A few forgotten pieces of flesh, a few terrible infections, had convinced her to change. She moved to whole limbs, leaning over the tree and fucking herself to completion. But she missed the grease of it, the rot. The eggs were a nice compromise. With her eyes closed, she could believe they were kidney and stomach and brain, slowly going rancid inside of her.

She stopped when it started to get dark. Her clit was raw and painful. The eggs had melted. Liquid jelly overflowed the gusset of her panties. It dripped onto the ground and pooled. She took her underwear off and sealed them in one of the empty containers.

The plug fell out but she had to push to release the heart and eyes. They broke free and splashed into the gelatin puddle. One of the eyes was damaged, flattened by orgasmic clenching. Her heart raced with the understanding that the vitreous humor was mixed with the lube and gelatin, clinging to her womb.

It wasn't too late, she decided, to cum one more time.

The way back to the car seemed even worse. Her entire groin was sore and her thighs were sticking together. Her knees didn't want to hold her after squatting for so long. By the time she settled into the driver's seat, she was nearly in tears.

A warm bath with Epsom salts helped with the swelling and the pain. She sank into it. Air made it all the way to her lungs for the first time in a month. Her shoulders relaxed. The world moved as it always should, slow and in one direction.

She'd hold onto the steaks, savoring one when the tightness came back. It wouldn't fix it, but it would help. She'd work the overtime, clip the coupons, save the cash. Hopefully she'd have enough set aside by the time she ran out.

Then she'd meet her contact at the bar and buy more heroin than they could ignore. She'd use that to get them to listen, and the cash to seal the deal. In a place so full of breakage and burdens, there would always be a little thing for sale.

  
  



End file.
